


you know me better than the truth

by explosivesky



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 09:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: He closes his eyes and doesn’t think about time or space or the Earth falling through the sky. He thinks about the weight of cherry blossom petals and how she’s the reason that he’s alive. Well; there are worse things they could be, she supposes.
Relationships: Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Kudos: 3





	you know me better than the truth

// **wednesday**

“You know,” she begins, bag over her arm, “you didn’t have to come.”

He ducks his head, feeling tall and lanky and entirely out of place, walking awkwardly beside her. “I know.”

“Artie’s been dying to show you his science project,” she continues. He hums dismissively. She picks up a zucchini and inspects it. “This doesn’t exactly seem like your _thing._ ”

“It’s not.” He drops a brightly-coloured box of cereal in the cart when she’s not looking. “I wanted to come.”

She doesn’t glance over at him, but the corners of her mouth lift. “Why?”

He’s reading the labels on the back of a jar of Nutella. “You know,” he replies offhandedly. He pointedly doesn’t meet her eyes. “It’s boring at home. I don’t like waiting.”

“So you just figured you’d badger me instead?”

“Yes,” he replies without thinking, and then, quickly, “wait – no. Am I badgering you? Is it that weird that I’m here?” He looks down at himself, like the answer is in his attire. His fingers fidget with the rolled-up sleeves of his shirt.

The wheels squeak against the linoleum floors as she pushes the cart along, grinning. “You’re not actually badgering me, but yes, it _is_ that weird that you’re here.”

“I should’ve kept the coat on.”

“I wouldn’t have let you come if you had. You stick out enough as it is.”

He picks up a tier of bananas and sniffs them. She’s examining lemons.

“Really,” she says, and nothing else.

He turns around. “Sorry?”

“Really?” She repeats, scowling briefly at the price of avocados. “That’s why you came?”

“No,” he confesses honestly. “It’s – been awhile.”

Her expression shifts into bewilderment. “Has it?” She says, now actively studying him. “Where have you—”

He feels his face burn. His hands open and close spasmodically a few times. He pretends to find the milk cartons fascinating. “No,” he says, wedging his voice out of his throat. “No, not like that. It’s been – it’s, erm, it’s been a day.”

Her eyebrows raise. It’s not the answer she was expecting. His blood vessels feel like flint and steel, waiting to spark and consume him. “A day?” She echoes, in a disbelieving sort of way. “You skipped the week? To you – you saw me yesterday?”

“Well, technically, but you know, time travel, bit of a funny thing—”

“Is that what you always do?” She asks, smirk on her lips. Something animalistic about the dilation of her pupils is making him uncomfortable. “Skip ahead to me?”

He moves his jaw side to side, apparently unable to think of a retort. “Can we not do this in a grocery store?”

She gives him one last look and returns to the fruits, grinning cockily. He resists the urge to smack himself in the forehead. He watches her – she bends, now canvassing small containers of blueberries. How _embarrassing,_ how mortifying, how – human, he feels; there are things he doesn’t know how to tell her yet.

At the register, she ends up tossing five of the six jars of Nutella he’d inconspicuously added, but she lets him keep the cereal.

“I can carry something,” he offers. He’s sort of new at this.

She’s dancing with that smirk again. “All right,” she says, and hands him the lightest bag. “But I don’t trust those skinny arms.”

He smiles. He can’t even be bothered to hide it, at this point. He’s unsure of what the implications in and of themselves mean. His shoes scuff against the pavement.

“I didn’t _miss_ you,” he tells her, interrupting the silence, and then winces. Okay, rocky start, but he’ll play that game: two truths and a lie. “I just – enjoy spending time with you.”

It’s the closest he’ll get for now, anyway.

–

(Hi Clara, hi Clara’s boyfriend, Artie greets when they walk through the door. Can I show you my science project?

The Doctor glances uncertainly at her.

Go ahead, boyfriend, she teases, and watches his expression stutter. He fixes his bow-tie nervously. She laughs. _Shut up,_ he says, as he follows Artie out of the room.)

// **thursday**

“You know, you can come in,” Angie says through the open window, frowning at him. “You don’t have to sit outside your box all morning. You look pathetic.”

He stands gracelessly. Something bobbing in her tone makes him blush. “I’m just – giving her a little space. I don’t want to bother her.”

Angie rolls her eyes. “You’re stupid. She loves it.”

He shifts his weight between feet, uncomfortable. “How do you know?”

She laughs, leaning on her elbows. “Please. It’s obvious. She loves having you around.”

“Angie,” a voice calls from beyond the curtain, “who are you talking to?”

Clara’s face appears over the windowsill, peaking out. She crinkles her nose when she sees him. “Really? Again?”

“According to Angie, you love having me around,” he points out. She glances between them, and then gently shoves Angie away.

“Go,” she says, “you have class. And stop talking about me when I’m not here.”

He hears Angie moan and stomp out of the room, and then Clara reappears. “As for you,” she says intimidatingly, “come inside. How long have you been out there? I hope none of the neighbours saw you.”

He scrambles over, slightly frightened of her. She meets him at the door. She crosses her arms and sizes him up for a minute.

“Why are you here?” She asks. “Are you in some kind of mortal danger you’ve just lead right to my doorstep?”

“No. Do you really love having me around?”

“No, I love _bossing_ you around. Explain.”

He rubs his hand against the back of his neck. “Erm,” he starts, sheepish, “I got lost. Time travel, you know, it’s very complicated, I don’t always end up in the right place or – time period—”

Her eyebrow twitches and he can see a kink in her cheek; she’s amused and she doesn’t want him to know it. His stomach ties itself in knots.

“Lost, huh?”

His blood speeds through his veins, flaring into his face. He doesn’t know what it is, about her, but he feels rendered into a permanent state of semi-embarrassment, like he’s always doing something he shouldn’t exactly be doing. She waits. He doesn’t answer.

She turns, smiling. “Well, I suppose it can’t be helped.”

He follows her into the kitchen, where she’s got a frying pan on the hob smeared in olive oil and a carton of eggs sitting on the counter, beside an assortment of vegetables. She opens a cabinet.

“Can you cook?” She says conversationally, pulling out plates. He rocks back on his heels, hands in his pockets, grinning.

“I probably invented half of your favourite dishes,” he tells her, waiting for her to be impressed. She smirks and passes over a knife.

“Someone of your caliber ought to be excellent at dicing onions, then,” she says, beginning to chop tomatoes. He moves next to her at the cutting board, peeling the skin off the onion.

“Omelettes?” He asks.

“In the mood,” she replies. “If you don’t like them, you can cook yourself something else, Master Chef.”

“I like them. I think. I definitely have at some point. Cool title, though.”

She laughs once and once only. His lips curl in response. He’s been in plenty of kitchens with plenty of different people. He can’t even keep track of the number of meals he’s cooked. And yet – and yet—

“Dump these in the bowl,” she says, gesturing to his left, like him helping her make breakfast is the most natural thing in the world.

And yet, that’s what it _feels_ like, which is a frightening prospect all on its own. His knuckles brush the back of her hand accidentally and he doesn’t apologize. She doesn’t seem to notice.

“You don’t do this often, do you.” It’s a question but she doesn’t phrase it like one. He’s more transparent than he thinks.

He aims for honesty. “No. I don’t.” He puts down his knife.

“You must like me,” she says, tipping her tomatoes into the bowl of onions. “To be here. And to do – things like this.”

She reaches for the egg carton, shifting to face him. Her fingertips press against his palm when she passes him an egg.

“Go on,” she says. “Crack it. One hand.”

He smiles.

“Yeah,” he echoes, tapping the egg against the rim of the pan. “I must.”

**//friday**

He’s watching cartoons when she comes downstairs. She pauses on the last step, looking at him suspiciously.

“Lost?” She deduces, tone subtly accusing. She’s not stupid. “Two days in a row, imagine that. Is your box malfunctioning?”

He springs up, accidentally knocking over an empty vase. He straightens it hurriedly. She raises an eyebrow.

“Erm, no,” he says, smoothing back his hair. “Not lost. Just—”

“Just?”

“—Bored.”

“Huh.” She crosses her arms again. It’s something he’s beginning to notice she does when she knows he’s lying. “For someone with a _time_ machine, you spend quite a lot of _time_ being bored.”

 _Boom._ If there are rounds, she’s winning them all; he can only hope nobody’s keeping score. She’s far too clever, too witty, too – too. He starts looking at her lips.

“Not with you,” he says, without thinking. “I’m never bored with you.”

Her mouth forms into an _oh,_ drifting into a quiet exhale. He shakes himself out of a daze.

“Alright,” she says, and that’s all. The air is different. He sticks out his tongue to taste it. She smiles and he catches it.

“What?” He says, tongue still half-out.

“Your weird habits,” she answers, but fondly. “Alright. Come on. We’ll go somewhere today.”

–

She takes him to the park, where the blossom trees are full in bloom and the grass is slightly damp from dew. She spreads a blanket across the ground and he takes off his coat, rolling his sleeves up. It’s becoming a popular look for him. She lies on her back.

“Do you come here often?” He asks, watching the light trickle through the leaves. He wants to know everything about her. “Friends?”

“Alone.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like many people. I don’t like…taking them to places that are special to me.”

He tilts his head towards her. Her eyelids are closed. “Is this place special to you?”

“In a way,” she replies. Her chest flutters with her breath. He imagines butterflies growing wings in her lungs. “Not for any particular reason. It’s just a place I go to think. And be alone.”

He gets the feeling that this is easier for her, keeping her eyes shut, like if she can’t see him maybe she’s not really sharing so much of herself with him. He tries it. His eyelashes brush.

“Do you like being alone?” He says. He can feel the pulse of her body beside him as if the ocean is rolling off of her. The fingers on her right hand tangle around a loose thread of the blanket.

Her tongue slips across her bottom lip. “Sometimes,” she says. And then: “No.”

He opens his eyes. The brightness momentarily disarms him. The wind pushing the sun through the blossoms gives him the impression of a kaleidoscope. He lets himself be entranced.

“Yeah,” he agrees, almost mindlessly. “I don’t like being alone, either.”

“Well, you’re not anymore.”

“Neither are you.”

He can feel her smile. It’s like the tip of a wave; the climax. There are still so many things he wants to ask her. Her turns his head.

She senses him staring at her. Her smile grows, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s good about that: knowing when to keep quiet and knowing when to speak up. Knowing when the moments mean more than the words ever could.

The patterns of light dancing across her face are beautiful.

“Why did you bring me?” He murmurs. He has a need to understand. “If it’s special to you.”

She hesitates. “Because you’re special to me, too.”

 _Oh._ Yes. Some things really are that easy, he guesses.

He glances between their bodies. Her hand is lying open, relaxed. He reaches for it. Her fingers are so small in his own. He closes his eyes and doesn’t think about time or space or the Earth falling through the sky. He thinks about the weight of cherry blossom petals and how she’s the reason that he’s alive.

–

(They don’t talk much on the way home, but he doesn’t let go of her hand. Or maybe she’s the one who doesn’t let go of his. He’s not sure. Intentions are hard to differentiate.

They’ve held hands before, but the pressure of her grasp now feels foreign, new. In a good way. In a way that finally makes him feel like he’s doing something right.

She stands on the doorstep, still not quite at his eye level, facing him.

He presses his lips to her forehead. It’s an impulse, or a habit – whichever of the two carries the least amount of consequence. He smiles at her. There’s something oddly gentle about his face; she wants to chalk it down to the shadows of the streetlamps, but her heartbeat is jumping rope in her wrist.

Goodnight, he says quietly, making no move to back up, like he’s waiting for something.

She – oh. Her turn. It’s all about putting pieces on the line.

I’ll see you tomorrow, she says instead. Something shifts in his irises.

What she means is, I want you to come back.

Sure? He asks, just in case.

Yeah.)

**//saturday**

He’s teaching Artie fast checkmates in chess when she finds him the next day. He doesn’t offer up an excuse. It feels like progress.

“Good morning, Clara,” Artie says. The Doctor just grins at her; it’s a twist of the mouth with an edge of uncertainty. He accidentally knocks over a pawn. He’s more prone to this clumsiness when she’s in the room.

“Good morning, Artie,” Clara responds. “Angie at Nina’s?”

“Yes,” he answers, concentrating on the board.

The Doctor concedes his king, and Artie throws his hands in the air victoriously. Clara picks a scattered pillow up off the floor, hiding her smile; she knows the loss was purposeful.

“Alright,” she begins. “Off you go, Artie. The boyfriend and I have things to do today.”

She uses the term jokingly, but it doesn’t fall – it holds, quick and loose; the placement is different on her tongue. She meets his gaze. He’s blushing, but he doesn’t look away. Well. There are worse things they could be, she supposes.

“Are you going on an adventure?” Artie asks. The gleam in his eyes is suddenly bright. “Can I come?”

The Doctor exhales loudly, alternating looks between them. He’s never any help. Clara pats Artie’s head.

“Not today, Artie, and no adventure,” she says. “Just breakfast.”

The Doctor interrupts. “Breakfast can be an adventure.”

She’s torn between laughing and rolling her eyes. Like she said: no help. “Well, it’s not.”

He looks a little put out. Artie sighs and picks up his chess set. “Okay,” he says, and scampers up the stairs.

Clara tugs on the sleeve of the Doctor’s shirt. He’s coatless again; it’s unusually warm for spring, and there’s something about him that appears more – at ease. He looks down at her, smiling strangely, and she falters. It’s about more than his mouth. Everything about his expression is genuine. The lines around his jaw aren’t as hard as she’s used to seeing them. She vaguely wonders if this is how people look at people they love and forgets to speak; her hand slips from where it’s caught around his shirt.

He catches it in his, fingers folding around her palm. He leans into her. “What is it?” He murmurs, unknowing. “Clara?”

Her bones are filled with sawdust. Her veins are feathers. Her heart pumps colours instead of blood: indigo, malachite, brass. Her lips flutter up and waver. She wants him to look at her like this – not forever, that’s ridiculous, but – often. As often as they’re together.

“Clara?” He says again, beginning to grow concerned.

That look is fading, and no, that’s not what she—“I like the way you say my name,” she tells him instead, and, well: it’s all about games these days. Might as well put the cards on the table.

He’s momentarily thrown. It’s not what he expected. The smile returns, his hand moving to lay against her cheek.

“Clara,” he says, his thumb sweeping under her eye. “Clara, Clara, Clara.”

The birds caged in her throat manage to escape. It’s not an effect she’s used to him having on her.

“Hungry,” she manages to say. “We should go.”

He backs up, reaching for the doorknob. She grabs her purse from off the windowsill.

“It’s funny,” he says, squinting against the sun as they walk outside. “I know who you are, and yet you still manage to surprise me.”

–

They sit across from each other in a little cafe in town. She sips her coffee. He tries to remember what he likes to eat.

“Waffles, maybe,” he says, reading the menu upside-down; she never said she understood him. “With strawberries and chocolate sauce. That sounds exciting.”

She grins. “If you ask, they’ll make a smiley-face out of whipped cream on the top.”

He looks thrilled; so, she _might_ have lied: she understands him a bit too well. She takes a pride in it she’s not sure she should admit to.

“Earlier,” she says. He puts his menu down. “I surprise you?”

“Every day.”

“Why?”

“You're—” he gestures at her. “You know. Unpredictable.”

She waits. “That all?”

“No,” he answers quickly, fidgeting, but can’t seem to figure out how to use his mouth. He begins blushing. “You're—you’re…”

His face grows steadily more red. He’s stopped looking at her. She’s amused by the idea that she can fluster him the way he flusters her, and then – _oh_.

She decides to take pity. “Okay, don’t hurt yourself.”

He scowls. He’s frustrated with his inability to tell her the truth. She almost feels bad, but she thinks his blush tells her everything he doesn’t want her to know.

He stews in silence for awhile. Her lips are curled slightly.

“For the record,” she starts, eyes dropping to the menu, “I like you, too.”

–

(She drags him to the shops after that, apparently in need of a new dress. He puts a sunhat on her head and watches her twirl in front of a mirror, giggling. He wouldn’t trade this for time and space. The idea doesn’t scare him nearly as much as he thinks it should.

She buys the hat, but not the dress. They walk to the next store. Her shoulder brushes his forearm.

There are a number of factors that make him do it. He’s smarter than he pretends to be, sometimes. He knows why.

Can I hold your hand? He asks, and her lips freeze in the middle of a laugh. She tilts her head. Her smile lingers. His fingers fit solidly between hers.

He could kiss her. He won’t.)

**//sunday**

“Clara,” Artie calls from the kitchen, “Daddy wants to know if your boyfriend is staying for dinner.”

The Doctor looks at her like he’s one of those cliché phrases, a small animal in the middle of a train track, or – something like that. “Family night,” she informs him. “Sunday Roast and a film. It’s a tradition.”

He glances around anxiously. “And that’s alright? If I stay?”

She pauses. “Do you _want_ to stay?”

“Of course.” The lack of thought put into the answer should probably embarrass him, but it doesn’t. They might be past that.

She grins. “Yeah,” she calls back to Artie. “He’s staying.”

They set an extra place at the table for him, next to Clara. He’s offered wine. Clara pours him grape juice instead. They all sit down and share what they’ve done that week; Artie talks about school; Angie moans about some girl she doesn’t like; their father complains about work; The Doctor just tries not to mention anything about time travel—

“Doctor what?” Their father questions, elbow on the table.

“Smith,” he answers. “John Smith.”

Clara chokes on her wine. He figures it’s less suspicious than saying _no name, just the Doctor._

“Well, Doctor, we’re honoured to have you with us tonight. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

He inclines his head gracefully. The level of normalcy he feels is novel, but – nice. “I’m delighted to be here.”

And the rest of dinner runs smoothly, once he realizes he’d rather listen to Clara talk than to hear his own voice; there’s something charming about watching her interact with the others. He studies people often, figuring them out, interpreting their meaning, but he doesn’t just – do it because he _likes_ them. He’s starting now. Her smile keeps the candles lit.

He helps her clear the plates afterward, and then they pile into the living room. The children are stretched out on the couch with their father at the end. There’s a loveseat and a footrest left. She shrugs.

He stretches his legs out, his arms over the back of the chair. She curls into his side, small and lithe. Her hair spills over his shoulder. They don’t touch in any other way. The film plays.

When he wakes, her knees are pressed against his thigh and her fingers are entwined in her lap. His palm is flat against her shoulder blade. His chin brushes the top of her head. Well, _one_ of them managed to keep their hands to themselves.

The credits are rolling. Artie and Angie have fallen asleep, too. He momentarily wonders if they’ve all been attacked, but their father returns from the kitchen with a glass of water and spots the Doctor awake.

“Oh, good,” he says quietly. “D'you mind waking her? She’s usually the one who puts them to bed.”

The Doctor rubs his face with his right hand, and nudges her with the other.

“Clara,” he whispers. She smells like hibiscus and something else – a hint of him, of space, of time; spring in Paris in the 1940’s; the ash of the explosion of Akhaten; raspberries and the centre of the universe. “Clara.”

She lifts her head, stirring. “Hm?”

“We fell asleep.”

She turns and looks at him, attempting to open her eyes. He can see the fuzzy outline of her features. She’s too close; her lips are parted.

“What?” She mutters, now squinting. She pauses. “Oh. Fell asleep.”

He pries his voice out of his mouth. “Yeah.”

She moves, planting her feet on the floor. He feels her skeleton shift back into place. His hand is still on her shoulder. He lets it drop when she stands, skidding softly down her back. She hesitates a second before moving. He thinks he sees her shiver but it’s too dark to tell.

She wakes Artie and Angie tenderly and sends them off to bed; he follows her up the stairs. She’s taking sheets out of the linen closet. In Artie’s room, she changes and smooths his blankets over him, tucking him in. The Doctor watches from the doorway.

“Do you want children?” He asks as they’re walking down the stairs. Her fingers fall off the railing.

“At this point, no,” she says, and doesn’t elaborate.

He’s surprised. He should be used to that. “But you’re so good with them.”

She smiles. “I might change my mind, one day. I don’t know.”

He hums, his hands in his pockets. It’s getting late. He doesn’t want to leave.

“We should finish that film,” he says.

She flicks on the kitchen light. She glances back at him with a sly twist of the mouth. “Staying the night?”

He forgets. She’s rather good at seeing through him. “No,” he half-lies as she pours herself a glass of water. “I don’t – have nights like this often, is all.”

It’s a truth; just not a whole one. Her fingers snag his hand as she walks by him again. She pulls. “Alright, then,” she says. “Come on.”

She sets her glass on the coffee table. He’s sitting in the loveseat out of familiarity. She raises an eyebrow.

“Ah,” she says, her tone annoyingly all-knowing. “We’re skipping those steps, are we?”

He has no idea what she’s talking about, but the predatory way she’s staring at him makes him want to say _yes._ Instead, he doesn’t say anything. His mouth opens and closes wordlessly. She laughs.

“You’re impossible,” she tells him, soaking in the irony. She sits next to him again. He likes the way her weight settles against his body. She reaches for the remote.

He still has no idea what the movie’s about, but he watches her react instead, he watches her laugh, watches her smile, bite her lip, breathe; he’s pretty sure she’s better than anything on that screen, anyway.

**//monday**

He’s five hours late banging on her door – not that they had an _appointment_ with an allotted time and place, but he feels bad nonetheless. He thinks about wearing a watch, just for fun. He knows it would make her laugh.

She opens it, mouth already in a small curve, eyebrow crooked. He’s sort of familiar with this expression. Sort of. But—

“That face,” he says. He pokes her cheek and gulps. “I’m in trouble, aren’t I?”

She giggles, her shoulders dropping. She catches his finger in her tiny hand before he can poke her again. “Oh, quiet,” she says. “You’re not in trouble.”

“There’s a _but_ there, I can hear it—”

Her tongue presses against the bottom row of her teeth. “But,” she allows, and her voice is suddenly lower, quieter; “If you were _really_ my boyfriend, yes, you’d be in trouble.”

He has a drum and a line of sheet music his heartbeats have started to ignore. She spins, switching from holding his index to his entire hand, dragging him inside. He likes the way the bottom of her dress twirls when she moves.

“What were you doing?” She asks, leading him to the living room. There’s a book open on the sofa. The house is empty, untroubled; silence and sunshine trickle through the window panes. She’s digging through her bag, her hair half-up, half-curled around her face in a frame. He remembers how it feels wrapped around his fingers.

“Bit of this, little of that,” he answers, unfocused. There’s a pause. She throws him a suspicious look. He smacks himself into attention. “Erm, I meant – I, I – visited Vastra and Jenny. Just checking up.”

She hums affirmatively, pulling out her keys. “And how are they?”

“Good.” His eyes land on the book again. “Were you reading?”

“Hm?” She follows his line of sight. Her tone turns teasing. “Oh, yeah. Slow day, you know.”

He blushes. He’d been doing so well. “Reading what?”

“The Alchemist.”

“Ah, yes, Coelho,” he replies, clapping his hands together. “Lovely fellow, bit too philosophical, refuted everything I tried to tell him about the Andromeda galaxy.”

It’s become the opposite with them. She’s rarely surprised by a word that comes out of his mouth. He’s mystified by the length of her eyelashes and the arch of her spine and the way she manages to be so alive with only one heart.

“I dunno,” she says, now tucking her purse in her bag. “He’s said stuff.”

“What sort of stuff?”

“Stuff I agree with.”

The Doctor furrows his eyebrows. “Such as?”

“You know,” Clara responds, taking her time. She keeps her gaze averted. He moves closer to her, one palm leaning against the back of the sofa.

“I don’t,” he says. And then – he doesn’t mean to – but: “I want to know everything about you.”

There are some things he ends up telling her, after all.

Her cheeks change into roses. He’s towering over her. She tilts her head, looking up to meet his eyes.

“When you want something,” she says, “the entire universe conspires in helping you achieve it.”

It takes him a moment to realize she’s paraphrasing the book at him, and not directly replying. He finds all of time and space in her irises. There are solar systems orbiting her bones. She has seen everything he’s seen and more, that one sunset he missed, the snowy Christmas morning he spent inside, an extraordinary Tuesday. He cups the side of her face with one hand, brushing her hair away from her forehead. Her breath takes flight in her chest.

“And you believe that?” He asks lowly, seriously.

“Yes,” she responds, almost immediately. Her fingers are clutching the edge of his coat.

“Well,” he murmurs, “is there anything you want now?”

Her teeth bite down on the inside of her lip. His fingertips feel like the fine bristles of a brush, like he’s painting her in. He’s staring at her mouth again.

“Yes,” she says, exhaling.

What happens is this: her hand wraps around his elbow and she lifts herself onto her toes as his palms press against her jaw and he bends to meet her mouth; they collide in the middle at the same time, lips touching almost frantically, like he’s spent his entire life running to this and she’s spent all of hers waiting for it, and he hasn’t had a home in four hundred years but her kiss feels like his.

She sinks back onto her feet. He opens his eyes slowly.

“Oh,” he says. “ _Oh_.”

–

(That? He asks. Is that what you wanted?

He hasn’t moved away from her. Her eyes are glittering.

I’m sorry, she says. I don’t know why I’m crying.

He thinks of his grave and the twelve-hundred lives she lived, waiting to come back to him.

I do.)

**//tuesday**

They decide to stargaze.

It’s a competition; she pulls up what she remembers from her time traipsing across the galaxies and they name as many planets as they can. They’re lying in the grass. His head is resting on her stomach and her fingers are tangled in his hair.

“Allinam,” she says, pointing. “Gaskar. Yehzen.” She cranes her neck. “Tran-something….Twelve?”

“Traxenaan Twelve,” he completes. She hums. Her nails scratch his scalp comfortingly.

“Soluria,” she continues. “Huuek.”

“Gallifrey,” he interrupts. Her fingers still. “Do you – remember it?”

They begin scratching again, slowly. “Yes,” she answers. “It was beautiful. One of the most beautiful planets I’ve ever seen.”

“What did you do there?”

“Worked in the repair shop. Mostly navigation.”

He stares into space. The sky is sitting on his chest. He feels like he can’t breathe.

“And when you died,” he says. “How did you die?”

There’s a moment, and then his head shifts to her lap as she sits up. Her hands cradle his face.

“Not in the Time War,” she says, looking down at him. “You have never been responsible for my death, Doctor. Don’t try to carry any unnecessary burdens. I didn’t die in the Time War.”

He puts a hand over his eyes temporarily, hiding them from her. When he drops his arm, she sees the dampness on his sleeve.

“It’s okay, Doctor,” she murmurs, and presses a kiss to his forehead. “You’ve done enough. I’m here. I’m alive. You’ve done enough.”

His mouth meets hers, and for the first time, there is nothing else he wants from the universe.

–

(All those planets, he says. All those stars. You’re the only one I want to see them with.

Well, you’re going to, she replies. Her fingers are absentmindedly stroking through his hair again. The earth revolves beneath them. He breathes her in.

The silence is pregnant. She hesitates.

Why? She asks. Why did you really come this week?

He thinks there is a sun inside of him, melting his bones. Should I not have? He says. Did you not – I mean, was I – too much?

No, she denies. No. That’s not it.

He waits. She doesn’t say anything else.

I was tired, he answers. Tired of missing the days. You sacrificed so many. I can sacrifice as many as I want. Time and space will still be there tomorrow. But you—

I’ll still be there tomorrow, too.

I want all the days. Not just Wednesdays. Sundays and Mondays and Tuesdays. I want every day with you.)

**//wednesday**

The Doctor can hardly contain himself when she steps into the Tardis. She forgets he doesn’t usually spend this long a period of time away from it. The console spins. The lights flash. Okay, she’ll admit it: she missed it too.

She runs her fingers over the levers. She remembers what to do with them. He watches her, leaning against the railing.

The Tardis hums pleasantly at her. Clara smiles.

“Thirteen hundred years,” he says, startling her, and then stops. “It’s – I don’t know. I normally know things. But I don’t know this.”

She’s understandably confused. “You don’t know what?”

“The words.” He pauses again, scratching at his head the way he does when he’s slightly dumbfounded. “How to say them.”

Her fingers skip across the console. She’s not meeting his eyes. “The beginning is a good place to start.”

“So I’ve heard. Never tried that before, though.”

“First time for everything.” Her lips are hidden behind a curtain of her hair, but he imagines the smirk, the curl of her frame. Her nails trace a button gently, like she’s afraid she’s going to break it. He places a hand flat against the small of her back.

“Thirteen hundred years, and then – you.” He pauses. “Except it’s always been you. You’ve always been there.”

Her neck arches. He catches her smile, briefly, flickering like the shadows of a flame waltzing with a wick. “Getting there,” she says, coyly.

“Shut up,” he fires back, a second late. She’s rubbing off on him; he’s begun wearing her habits like a familiar coat. He grins, but like hers, it is quick: the moment is heavy with anticipation. He looks at her, and she suddenly can’t look anywhere else.

“Just say it, Doctor,” she says, a demand masquerading as a plead. “Say it. Say anything.”

His other hand raises up and a palm cups her cheek. “I…like you,” he murmurs. Light quivers in her irises; it’s so human, she thinks, I like you; such a human thing to say— “I like you, and all I know is that I don’t miss the days when I didn’t know you existed.”

It’s a start.

–

(When I say I like you, he says, I mean—

I know, Doctor.

I love you.

I know.)


End file.
